tisdag, juli 22, 2008

The Future of America

It's the little adventures that interest me most, I think. The casual exchange. The coffeeshop eavesdrop. Calling my cat's name every time the poor beast has just closed her eyes.

Yesterday, the phone rings. As I don't recognize the number, and even though it's local, I let it go to message. A woman named Jamie has left a message for someone named Deb. Jamie hopes this is the right number--it isn't--and that Deb should know it is NOT okay to come later, that if she doesn't show for the planned session she'll receive, at best, half credit.

She also hopes Deb has a good day and that she (Jamie) will see her (Deb) soon.

After about 10 minutes, I call the number, having decided it's a simple nice thing to do and it does seem like it's a message of value to someone, or at least someone's class grade.

Someone named Jenny or Lyndsey or something ending in y answers. Apparently this is a front desk, perhaps of a philosophy or English or mathematics department of one of Saint Paul's many small colleges.

I tell her I'm returning a call that was just placed to me. I'd like to speak to Jamie.

"I'm sorry," she says, "you have the wrong number. There's no Jamie here."

"I just hit the call back," I said. "It was a woman named Jamie from this number."

"There's no Jamie here."

[pause]

"She was looking for a Deb," I say.

"There's no--WAIT," she says. "Looking for Deb? Hold on."

I'm on hold. I'm holding. Now someone picks up.

"This is Jamie...."

What I should have said is, "That's impossible. There's no Jamie there." Alas, I simply told her who I was, who she left a message for on my phone, and that indeed it was the wrong number. We matched the numbers and found she'd misdialed the last one.

No worries. Problem solved.

And one hopes that in the future the desk help learns that not all instructors share the first names of "Ms." "Mr." "Mrs." or "Professor."